Robert Falconer by George MacDonald (page 8)

do that.’

‘Yes; but I have some notion of what it’s about, I think. Just lend it to me; and by the time we have our next lesson, you will see whether I’m not able to show you I understand it. I shall take good care of it,’ she added, with a smile, seeing Robert’s reluctance to part with it. ‘It doesn’t matter my having it, you know, now that you’ve read it to me, I want to make you do it justice.–But it’s quite time I were going home. Besides, I really don’t think you can see to read any more.’

‘Weel, it’s better no to try, though I hae them maistly upo’ my tongue: I might blunder, and that wad blaud them.–Will you let me go home with you?’ he added, in pure tremulous English.

‘Certainly, if you like,’ she answered; and they walked towards the town.

Robert opened the fountain of his love for Ericson, and let it gush like a river from a hillside. He talked on and on about him, with admiration, gratitude, devotion. And Miss St. John was glad of the veil of the twilight over her face as she listened, for the boy’s enthusiasm trembled through her as the wind through an Æolian harp. Poor Robert! He did not know, I say, what he was doing, and so was fulfilling his sacred destiny.

‘Bring your manuscripts when you come next,’ she said, as they walked along–gently adding, ‘I admire your friend’s verses very much, and should like to hear more of them.’

‘I’ll be sure an’ do that,’ answered Robert, in delight that he had found one to sympathize with him in his worship of Ericson, and that one his other idol.

When they reached the town, Miss St. John, calling to mind its natural propensity to gossip, especially on the evening of a market-day, when the shopkeepers, their labours over, would be standing in a speculative mood at their doors, surrounded by groups of friends and neighbours, felt shy of showing herself on the square with Robert, and proposed that they should part, giving as a by-the-bye reason that she had a little shopping to do as she went home. Too simple to suspect the real reason, but with a heart that delighted in obedience, Robert bade her good-night at once, and took another way.

As he passed the door of Merson the haberdasher’s shop, there stood William MacGregor, the weaver, looking at nothing and doing nothing. We have seen something of him before: he was a remarkable compound of good nature and bad temper. People were generally afraid of him, because he had a biting satire at his command, amounting even to wit, which found vent in verse–not altogether despicable even from a literary point of view. The only person he, on his part, was afraid of, was his own wife; for upon her, from lack of apprehension, his keenest irony fell, as he said, like water on a duck’s back, and in respect of her he had, therefore, no weapon of offence to strike terror withal. Her dulness was her defence. He liked Robert. When he saw him, he wakened up, laid hold of him by the button, and drew him in.

‘Come in, lad,’ he said, ‘an’ tak a pinch. I’m waitin’ for Merson.’ As he spoke he took from his pocket his mull, made of the end of a ram’s horn, and presented it to Robert, who accepted the pledge of friendship. While he was partaking, MacGregor drew himself with some effort upon the counter, saying in a half-comical, half-admonitory tone,

‘Weel, and hoo’s the mathematics, Robert?’

‘Thrivin’,’ answered Robert, falling into his humour.

‘Weel, that’s verra weel. Duv ye min’, Robert, hoo, whan ye was aboot the age o’ aucht year aul’, ye cam to me ance at my shop aboot something yer gran’mither, honest woman, wantit, an’ I, by way o’ takin’ my fun o’ ye, said to ye, “Robert, ye hae grown desperate; ye’re a man clean; ye hae gotten the breeks on.” An’ says ye, “Ay, Mr. MacGregor, I want naething noo but a watch an’ a wife”?’

‘I doobt I’ve forgotten a’ aboot it, Mr. MacGregor,’ answered Robert. ‘But I’ve made some progress, accordin’ to your story, for Dr. Anderson, afore I cam hame, gae me a watch. An’ a fine crater it is, for it aye does its best, an’ sae I excuse its shortcomin’s.’

‘There’s just ae thing, an’ nae anither,’ returned the manufacturer, ‘that I cannot excuse in a watch. Gin a watch gangs ower fest, ye fin’ ‘t oot. Gin she gangs ower slow, ye fin’ ‘t oot, an’ ye can aye calculate upo’ ‘t correck eneuch for maitters sublunairy, as Mr. Maccleary says. An’ gin a watch stops a’thegither, ye ken it’s failin’, an’ ye ken whaur it sticks, an’ a’ ‘at ye say ‘s “Tut, tut, de’il hae ‘t for a watch!” But there’s ae thing that God nor man canna bide in a watch, an’ that’s whan it stan’s still for a bittock, an’ syne gangs on again. Ay, ay! tic, tic, tic! wi’ a fair face and a leein’ hert. It wad gar ye believe it was a’ richt, and time for anither tum’ler, whan it’s twal o’clock, an’ the kirkyaird fowk thinkin’ aboot risin’. Fegs, I had a watch o’ my father’s, an’ I regairdit it wi’ a reverence mair like a human bein’: the second time it played me that pliskie, I dang oot its guts upo’ the loupin’-on-stane at the door o’ the chop. But lat the watch sit: whaur’s the wife? Ye canna be a man yet wantin’ the wife–by yer ain statement.’

‘The watch cam unsoucht, Mr. MacGregor, an’ I’m thinkin’ sae maun the wife,’ answered Robert, laughing.

‘Preserve me for ane frae a wife that comes unsoucht,’ returned the weaver. ‘But, my lad, there may be some wives that winna come whan they are soucht. Preserve me frae them too!–Noo, maybe ye dinna ken what I mean–but tak ye tent what ye’re aboot. Dinna ye think ‘at ilka bonnie lass ‘at may like to haud a wark wi’ ye ‘s jist ready to mairry ye aff han’ whan ye say, “Noo, my dawtie.”–An’ ae word mair, Robert: Young men, especially braw lads like yersel’, ‘s unco ready to fa’ in love wi’ women fit to be their mithers. An’ sae ye see–‘

He was interrupted by the entrance of a girl. She had a shawl over her head, notwithstanding it was summer weather, and crept in hesitatingly, as if she were not quite at one with herself as to her coming purchase. Approaching a boy behind the counter on the opposite side of the shop, she asked for something, and he proceeded to serve her. Robert could not help thinking, from the one glimpse of her face he had got through the dusk, that he had seen her before. Suddenly the vision of an earthen floor with a pool of brown sunlight upon it, bare feet, brown hair, and soft eyes, mingled with a musk odour wafted from Arabian fairyland, rose before him: it was Jessie Hewson.

‘I ken that lassie,’ he said, and moved to get down from the counter on which he too had seated himself.

‘Na, na,’ whispered the manufacturer, laying, like the Ancient Mariner, a brown skinny hand of restraint upon Robert’s arm–‘na, na, never heed her. Ye maunna speyk to ilka lass ‘at ye ken.–Poor thing! she’s been doin’ something wrang, to gang slinkin’ aboot i’ the gloamin’ like a baukie (bat), wi’ her plaid ower her heid. Dinna fash wi’ her.’

‘Nonsense!’ returned Robert, with indignation. ‘What for shouldna I speik till her? She’s a decent lassie–a dochter o’ James Hewson, the cottar at Bodyfauld. I ken her fine.’

He said this in a whisper; but the girl seemed to hear it, for she left the shop with a perturbation which the dimness of the late twilight could not conceal. Robert hesitated no longer, but followed her, heedless of the louder expostulations of MacGregor. She was speeding away down the street, but he took longer strides than she, and was almost up with her, when she drew her shawl closer about her head, and increased her pace.

‘Jessie!’ said Robert, in a tone of expostulation. But she made no answer. Her head sunk lower on her bosom, and she hurried yet faster. He gave a long stride or two and laid his hand on her shoulder. She stood still, trembling.

‘Jessie, dinna ye ken me–Robert Faukner? Dinna be feart at me. What’s the maitter wi’ ye, ‘at ye winna speik till a body? Hoo’s a’ the fowk at hame?’

She burst out crying, cast one look into Robert’s face, and fled. What a change was in that face? The peach-colour was gone from her cheek; it was pale and thin. Her eyes were hollow, with dark shadows under them, the shadows of a sad sunset. A foreboding of the truth arose in his heart, and the tears rushed up into his eyes. The next moment the eidolon of Mary St. John, moving gracious and strong, clothed in worship and the dignity which is its own defence, appeared beside that of Jessie Hewson, her bowed head shaken with sobs, and her weak limbs urged to ungraceful flight. As if walking in the vision of an eternal truth, he went straight to Captain Forsyth’s door.

‘I want to speak to Miss St. John, Isie,’ said Robert.

‘She’ll be doon in a minit.’

‘But isna yer mistress i’ the drawin’-room?–I dinna want to see her.’

‘Ow, weel,’ said the girl, who was almost fresh from the country, ‘jist rin up the stair, an’ chap at the door o’ her room.’

With the simplicity of a child, for what a girl told him to do must be right, Robert sped up the stair, his heart going like a fire-engine. He had never approached Mary’s room from this side, but instinct or something else led him straight to her door. He knocked.

‘Come in,’ she said, never doubting it was the maid, and Robert entered.

She was brushing her hair by the light of a chamber candle. Robert was seized with awe, and his limbs trembled. He could have kneeled before her–not to beg forgiveness, he did not think of that–but to worship, as a man may worship a woman. It is only a strong, pure heart like Robert’s that ever can feel all the inroad of the divine mystery of womanhood. But he did not kneel. He had a duty to perform. A flush rose in Miss St. John’s face, and sank away, leaving it pale. It was not that she thought once of her own condition, with her hair loose on her shoulders, but, able only to conjecture what had brought him thither, she could not but regard Robert’s presence with dismay. She stood with her ivory brush in her right hand uplifted, and a great handful of hair in her left. She was soon relieved, however, although what with his contemplated intercession, the dim vision of Mary’s lovely face between the masses of her hair, and the lavender odour that filled the room–perhaps also a faint suspicion of impropriety sufficient to give force to the rest–Robert was thrown back into the abyss of his mother-tongue, and out of this abyss talked like a Behemoth.

‘Robert!’ said Mary, in a tone which, had he not been so eager after his end, he might have interpreted as one of displeasure.

‘Ye maun hearken till me, mem.–Whan I was oot at Bodyfauld,’ he began methodically, and Mary, bewildered, gave one hasty brush to her handful of hair and again stood still: she could imagine no connection between this meeting and their late parting–‘Whan I was was oot at Bodyfauld ae simmer, I grew acquant wi’ a bonnie lassie there, the dochter o’ Jeames Hewson, an honest cottar, wi’ Shakspeare an’ the Arabian Nichts upo’ a skelf i’ the hoose wi’ ‘im. I gaed in ae day whan I wasna weel; an’ she jist ministert to me, as nane ever did but yersel’, mem. An’ she was that kin’ an’ mither-like to the wee bit greitin’ bairnie ‘at she had to tak care o’ ’cause her mither was oot wi’ the lave shearin’! Her face was jist like a simmer day, an’ weel I likit the luik o’ the lassie!–I met her again the nicht. Ye never saw sic a change. A white face, an’ nothing but greitin’ to come oot o’ her. She ran frae me as gin I had been the de’il himsel’. An’ the thocht o’ you, sae bonnie an’ straucht an’ gran’, cam ower me.’

Yielding to a masterful impulse, Robert did kneel now. As if sinner, and not mediator, he pressed the hem of her garment to his lips.

‘Dinna be angry at me, Miss St. John,’ he pleaded, ‘but be mercifu’ to the lassie. Wha’s to help her that can no more luik a man i’ the face, but the clear-e’ed lass that wad luik the sun himsel’ oot o’ the lift gin he daured to say a word against her. It’s ae woman that can uphaud anither. Ye ken what I mean, an’ I needna say mair.’

He rose and turned to leave the room.

Bewildered and doubtful, Miss St. John did not know what to answer, but felt that she must make some reply.

‘You haven’t told me where to find the girl, or what you want me to do with her.’

‘I’ll fin’ oot whaur she bides,’ he said, moving again towards the door.

‘But what am I to do with her, Robert?’

‘That’s your pairt. Ye maun fin’ oot what to do wi’ her. I canna tell ye that. But gin I was you, I wad gie her a kiss to begin wi’. She’s nane o’ yer brazen-faced hizzies, yon. A kiss wad be the savin’ o’ her.’

‘But you may be–. But I have nothing to go upon. She would resent my interference.’

‘She’s past resentin’ onything. She was gaein’ aboot the toon like ane o’ the deid ‘at hae naething to say to onybody, an’ naebody onything to say to them. Gin she gangs on like that she’ll no be alive lang.’

That night Jessie Hewson disappeared. A mile or two up the river under a high bank, from which the main current had receded, lay an awful, swampy place–full of reeds, except in the middle where was one round space full of dark water and mud. Near this Jessie Hewson was seen about an hour after Robert had thus pled for her with his angel.

The event made a deep impression upon Robert. The last time that he saw them, James and his wife were as cheerful as usual, and gave him a hearty welcome. Jessie was in service, and doing well, they said. The next time he opened the door of the cottage it was like the entrance to a haunted tomb. Not a smile was in the place. James’s cheeriness was all gone. He was sitting at the table with his head leaning on his hand. His Bible was open before him, but he was not reading a word. His wife was moving listlessly about. They looked just as Jessie had looked that night–as if they had died long ago, but somehow or other could not get into their graves and be at rest. The child Jessie had nursed with such care was toddling about, looking rueful with loss. George had gone to America, and the whole of that family’s joy had vanished from the earth.

The subject was not resumed between Miss St. John and Robert. The next time he saw her, he knew by her pale troubled face that she had heard the report that filled the town; and she knew by his silence that it had indeed reference to the same girl of whom he had spoken to her. The music would not go right that evening. Mary was distraite, and Robert was troubled. It was a week or two before there came a change. When the turn did come, over his being love rushed up like a spring-tide from the ocean of the Infinite.

He was accompanying her piano with his violin. He made blunders, and her playing was out of heart. They stopped as by consent, and a moment’s silence followed. All at once she broke out with something Robert had never heard before. He soon found that it was a fantasy upon Ericson’s poem. Ever through a troubled harmony ran a silver thread of melody from far away. It was the caverns drinking from the tempest overhead, the grasses growing under the snow, the stars making music with the dark, the streams filling the night with the sounds the day had quenched, the whispering call of the dreams left behind in ‘the fields of sleep,’–in a word, the central life pulsing in aeonian peace through the outer ephemeral storms. At length her voice took up the theme. The silvery thread became song, and through all the opposing, supporting harmonies she led it to the solution of a close in which the only sorrow was in the music itself, for its very life is an ‘endless ending.’ She found Robert kneeling by her side. As she turned from the instrument his head drooped over her knee. She laid her hand on his clustering curls, bethought herself, and left the room. Robert wandered out as in a dream. At midnight he found himself on a solitary hill-top, seated in the heather, with a few tiny fir-trees about him, and the sounds of a wind, ethereal as the stars overhead, flowing through their branches: he heard the sound of it, but it did not touch him.

Where was God?

In him and his question.

CHAPTER XX.

ERICSON LOSES TO WIN.

If Mary St. John had been an ordinary woman, and if, notwithstanding, Robert had been in love with her, he would have done very little in preparation for the coming session. But although she now possessed him, although at times he only knew himself as loving her, there was such a mountain air of calm about her, such an outgoing divinity of peace, such a largely moulded harmony of being, that he could not love her otherwise than grandly. For her sake, weary with loving her, he would yet turn to his work, and, to be worthy of her, or rather, for he never dreamed of being worthy of her, to be worthy of leave to love her, would forget her enough to lay hold of some abstract truth of lines, angles, or symbols. A strange way of being in love, reader? You think so? I would there were more love like it: the world would be centuries nearer its redemption if a millionth part of the love in it were of the sort. All I insist, however, on my reader’s believing is, that it showed, in a youth like Robert, not less but more love that he could go against love’s sweetness for the sake of love’s greatness. Literally, not figuratively, Robert would kiss the place where her foot had trod; but I know that once he rose from such a kiss ‘to trace the hyperbola by means of a string.’

It had been arranged between Ericson and Robert, in Miss Napier’s parlour, the old lady knitting beside, that Ericson should start, if possible, a week earlier than usual, and spend the difference with Robert at Rothieden. But then the old lady had opened her mouth and spoken. And I firmly believe, though little sign of tenderness passed between them, it was with an elder sister’s feeling for Letty’s admiration of the ‘lan’less laird,’ that she said as follows:–

‘Dinna ye think, Mr. Ericson, it wad be but fair to come to us neist time? Mistress Faukner, honest lady, an’ lang hae I kent her, ‘s no sae auld a frien’ to you, Mr. Ericson, as oorsel’s–nae offence to her, ye ken. A’body canna be frien’s to a’body, ane as lang ‘s anither, ye ken.’

”Deed I maun alloo, Miss Naper,’ interposed Robert, ‘it’s only fair. Ye see, Mr. Ericson, I cud see as muckle o’ ye almost, the tae way as the tither. Miss Naper maks me welcome as weel’s you.’

‘An’ I will mak ye welcome, Robert, as lang’s ye’re a gude lad, as ye are, and gang na efter–nae ill gait. But lat me hear o’ yer doin’ as sae mony young gentlemen do, espeacially whan they’re ta’en up by their rich relations, an’, public-hoose as this is, I’ll close the door o’ ‘t i’ yer face.’

‘Bless me, Miss Naper!’ said Robert, ‘what hae I dune to set ye at me that gait? Faith, I dinna ken what ye mean.’

‘Nae mair do I, laddie. I hae naething against ye whatever. Only ye see auld fowk luiks aheid, an’ wad fain be as sure o’ what’s to come as o’ what’s gane.’

‘Ye maun bide for that, I doobt,’ said Robert.

‘Laddie,’ retorted Miss Napier, ‘ye hae mair sense nor ye hae ony richt till. Haud the tongue o’ ye. Mr. Ericson ‘s to come here neist.’

And the old lady laughed such good humour into her stocking-sole, that the foot destined to wear it ought never to have been cold while it lasted. So it was then settled; and a week before Robert was to start for Aberdeen, Ericson walked into The Boar’s Head. Half-an-hour after that, Crookit Caumill was shown into the ga’le-room with the message to Maister Robert that Maister Ericson was come, and wanted to see him.

Robert pitched Hutton’s Mathematics into the grate, sprung to his feet, all but embraced Crookit Caumill on the spot, and was deterred only by the perturbed look the man wore. Crookit Caumill was a very human creature, and hadn’t a fault but the drink, Miss Napier said. And very little of that he would have had if she had been as active as she was willing.

‘What’s the maitter, Caumill?’ asked Robert, in considerable alarm.

‘Ow, naething, sir,’ returned Campbell.

‘What gars ye look like that, than?’ insisted Robert.

‘Ow, naething. But whan Miss Letty cried doon the close upo’ me, she had her awpron till her een, an’ I thocht something bude to be wrang; but I hadna the hert to speir.’

Robert darted to the door, and rushed to the inn, leaving Caumill describing iambi on the road behind him.

When he reached The Boar’s Head there was nobody to be seen. He darted up the stair to the room where he had first waited upon Ericson.

Three or four maids stood at the door. He asked no question, but went in, a dreadful fear at his heart. Two of the sisters and Dr. Gow stood by the bed.

Ericson lay upon it, clear-eyed, and still. His cheek was flushed. The doctor looked round as Robert entered.

‘Robert,’ he said, ‘you must keep your friend here quiet. He’s broken a blood-vessel–walked too much, I suppose. He’ll be all right soon, I hope; but we can’t be too careful. Keep him quiet–that’s the main thing. He mustn’t speak a word.’

So saying he took his leave.

Ericson held out his thin hand. Robert grasped it. Ericson’s lips moved as if he would speak.

‘Dinna speik, Mr. Ericson,’ said Miss Letty, whose tears were flowing unheeded down her cheeks, ‘dinna speik. We a’ ken what ye mean an’ what ye want wi’oot that.’

Then she turned to Robert, and said in a whisper,

‘Dr. Gow wadna hae ye sent for; but I kent weel eneuch ‘at he wad be a’ the quaieter gin ye war here. Jist gie a chap upo’ the flure gin ye want onything, an’ I’ll be wi’ ye in twa seconds.’

The sisters went away. Robert drew a chair beside the bed, and once more was nurse to his friend. The doctor had already bled him at the arm: such was the ordinary mode of treatment then.

Scarcely was he seated, when Ericson spoke–a smile flickering over his worn face.

‘Robert, my boy,’ he said.

‘Dinna speak,’ said Robert, in alarm; ‘dinna speak, Mr. Ericson.’

‘Nonsense,’ returned Ericson, feebly. ‘They’re making a work about nothing. I’ve done as much twenty times since I saw you last, and I’m not dead yet. But I think it’s coming.’

‘What’s coming?’ asked Robert, rising in alarm.

‘Nothing,’ answered Ericson, soothingly,–‘only death.–I should like to see Miss St. John once before I die. Do you think she would come and see me if I were really dying?’

‘I’m sure she wad. But gin ye speik like this, Miss Letty winna lat me come near ye, no to say her. Oh, Mr. Ericson! gin ye dee, I sanna care to live.’

Bethinking himself that such was not the way to keep Ericson quiet, he repressed his emotion, sat down behind the curtain, and was silent. Ericson fell fast asleep. Robert crept from the room, and telling Miss Letty that he would return presently, went to Miss St. John.

‘How can I go to Aberdeen without him?’ he thought as he walked down the street.

Neither was a guide to the other; but the questioning of two may give just the needful points by which the parallax of a truth may be gained.

‘Mr. Ericson’s here, Miss St. John,’ he said, the moment he was shown into her presence.

Her face flushed. Robert had never seen her look so beautiful.

‘He’s verra ill,’ he added.

Her face grew pale–very pale.

‘He asked if I thought you would go and see him–that is if he were going to die.’

A sunset flush, but faint as on the clouds of the east, rose over her pallor.

‘I will go at once,’ she said, rising.

‘Na, na,’ returned Robert, hastily. ‘It has to be manage. It’s no to be dune a’ in a hurry. For ae thing, there’s Dr. Gow says he maunna speak ae word; and for anither, there’s Miss Letty ‘ill jist be like a watch-dog to haud a’body oot ower frae ‘im. We maun bide oor time. But gin ye say ye’ll gang, that ‘ll content him i’ the meantime. I’ll tell him.’

‘I will go any moment,’ she said. ‘Is he very ill?’

‘I’m afraid he is. I doobt I’ll hae to gang to Aberdeen withoot him.’

A week after, though he was better, his going was out of the question. Robert wanted to stay with him, but he would not hear of it. He would follow in a week or so, he said, and Robert must start fair with the rest of the semies.

But all the removal he was ever able to bear was to the ‘red room,’ the best in the house, opening, as I have already mentioned, from an outside stair in the archway. They put up a great screen inside the door, and there the lan’less laird lay like a lord.

CHAPTER XXI.

SHARGAR ASPIRES.

Robert’s heart was dreary when he got on the box-seat of the mail-coach at Rothieden–it was yet drearier when he got down at The Royal Hotel in the street of Ben Accord–and it was dreariest of all when he turned his back on Ericson’s, and entered his own room at Mrs. Fyvie’s.

Shargar had met him at the coach. Robert had scarcely a word to say to him. And Shargar felt as dreary as Robert when he saw him sit down, and lay his head on the table without a word.

‘What’s the maitter wi’ ye, Robert?’ he faltered out at last. ‘Gin ye dinna speyk to me, I’ll cut my throat. I will, faith!’

‘Haud yer tongue wi’ yer nonsense, Shargar. Mr. Ericson’s deein’.’

‘O lord!’ said Shargar, and said nothing more for the space of ten minutes.

Then he spoke again–slowly and sententiously.

‘He hadna you to tak care o’ him, Robert. Whaur is he?’

‘At The Boar’s Heid.’

‘That’s weel. He’ll be luikit efter there.’

‘A body wad like to hae their ain han’ in ‘t, Shargar.’

‘Ay. I wiss we had him here again.’

The ice of trouble thus broken, the stream of talk flowed more freely.

‘Hoo are ye gettin’ on at the schule, man?’ asked Robert.

‘Nae that ill,’ answered Shargar. ‘I was at the heid o’ my class yesterday for five meenits.’

‘An’ hoo did ye like it?’

‘Man, it was fine. I thocht I was a gentleman a’ at ance.’

‘Haud ye at it, man,’ said Robert, as if from the heights of age and experience, ‘and maybe ye will be a gentleman some day.’

‘Is ‘t poassible, Robert? A crater like me grow intil a gentleman?’ said Shargar, with wide eyes.

‘What for no?’ returned Robert.

‘Eh, man!’ said Shargar.

He stood up, sat down again, and was silent.

‘For ae thing,’ resumed Robert, after a pause, during which he had been pondering upon the possibilities of Shargar’s future–‘for ae thing, I doobt whether Dr. Anderson wad hae ta’en ony fash aboot ye, gin he hadna thocht ye had the makin’ o’ a gentleman i’ ye.’

‘Eh, man!’ said Shargar.

He stood up again, sat down again, and was finally silent.

Next day Robert went to see Dr. Anderson, and told him about Ericson. The doctor shook his head, as doctors have done in such cases from Æsculapius downwards. Robert pressed no further questions.

‘Will he be taken care of where he is?’ asked the doctor.

‘Guid care o’,’ answered Robert.

‘Has he any money, do you think?’

‘I hae nae doobt he has some, for he’s been teachin’ a’ the summer. The like o’ him maun an’ will work whether they’re fit or no.’

‘Well, at all events, you write, Robert, and give him the hint that he’s not to fash himself about money, for I have more than he’ll want. And you may just take the hint yourself at the same time, Robert, my boy,’ he added in, if possible, a yet kinder tone.

Robert’s way of showing gratitude was the best way of all. He returned kindness with faith.

‘Gin I be in ony want, doctor, I’ll jist rin to ye at ance. An’ gin I want ower muckle ye maun jist say na.’

‘That’s a good fellow. You take things as a body means them.’

‘But hae ye naething ye wad like me to do for ye this session, sir?’

‘No. I won’t have you do anything but your own work. You have more to do than you had last year. Mind your work; and as often as you get tired over your books, shut them up and come to me. You may bring Shargar with you sometimes, but we must take care and not make too much of him all at once.’

‘Ay, ay, doctor. But he’s a fine crater, Shargar, an’ I dinna think he’ll be that easy to blaud. What do you think he’s turnin’ ower i’ that reid heid o’ his noo?’

‘I can’t tell that. But there’s something to come out of the red head, I do believe. What is he thinking of?’

‘Whether it be possible for him ever to be a gentleman. Noo I tak that for a good sign i’ the likes o’ him.’

‘No doubt of it. What did you say to him?’

‘I tellt him ‘at hoo I didna think ye wad hae ta’en sae muckle fash gin ye hadna had some houps o’ the kin’ aboot him.’

‘You said well. Tell him from me that I expect him to be a gentleman. And by the way, Robert, do try a little, as I think I said to you once before, to speak English. I don’t mean that you should give up Scotch, you know.’

‘Weel, sir, I hae been tryin’; but what am I to do whan ye speyk to me as gin ye war my ain father? I canna min’ upo’ a word o’ English whan ye do that.’

Dr. Anderson laughed, but his eyes glittered.

Robert found Shargar busy over his Latin version. With a ‘Weel, Shargar,’ he took his books and sat down. A few moments after, Shargar lifted his head, stared a while at Robert, and then said,

‘Duv you railly think it, Robert?’

‘Think what? What are ye haverin’ at, ye gowk?’

‘Duv ye think ‘at I ever could grow intil a gentleman?’

‘Dr. Anderson says he expecs ‘t o’ ye.’

‘Eh, man!’

A long pause followed, and Shargar spoke again.

‘Hoo am I to begin, Robert?’

‘Begin what?’

‘To be a gentleman.’

Robert scratched his head, like Brutus, and at length became oracular.

‘Speyk the truth,’ he said.

‘I’ll do that. But what aboot–my father?’

‘Naebody ‘ill cast up yer father to ye. Ye need hae nae fear o’ that.’

‘My mither, than?’ suggested Shargar, with hesitation.

‘Ye maun haud yer face to the fac’.’

‘Ay, ay. But gin they said onything, ye ken–aboot her.’

‘Gin ony man-body says a word agen yer mither, ye maun jist knock him doon upo’ the spot.’

‘But I michtna be able.’

‘Ye could try, ony gait.’

‘He micht knock me down, ye ken.’

‘Weel, gae doon than.’

‘Ay.’

This was all the instruction Robert ever gave Shargar in the duties of a gentleman. And I doubt whether Shargar sought further enlightenment by direct question of any one. He worked harder than ever; grew cleanly in his person, even to fastidiousness; tried to speak English; and a wonderful change gradually, but rapidly, passed over his outer man. He grew taller and stronger, and as he grew stronger, his legs grew straighter, till the defect of approximating knees, the consequence of hardship, all but vanished. His hair became darker, and the albino look less remarkable, though still he would remind one of a vegetable grown in a cellar.

Dr. Anderson thought it well that he should have another year at the grammar-school before going to college.–Robert now occupied Ericson’s room, and left his own to Shargar.

Robert heard every week from Miss St. John about Ericson. Her reports varied much; but on the whole he got a little better as the winter went on. She said that the good women at The Boar’s Head paid him every attention: she did not say that almost the only way to get him to eat was to carry him delicacies which she had prepared with her own hands.

She had soon overcome the jealousy with which Miss Letty regarded her interest in their guest, and before many days had passed she would walk into the archway and go up to his room without seeing any one, except the sister whom she generally found there. By what gradations their intimacy grew I cannot inform my reader, for on the events lying upon the boundary of my story, I have received very insufficient enlightenment; but the result it is easy to imagine. I have already hinted at an early disappointment of Miss St. John. She had grown greatly since, and her estimate of what she had lost had altered considerably in consequence. But the change was more rapid after she became acquainted with Ericson. She would most likely have found the young man she thought she was in love with in the days gone by a very commonplace person now. The heart which she had considered dead to the world had, even before that stormy night in the old house, begun to expostulate against its owner’s mistake, by asserting a fair indifference to that portion of its past history. And now, to her large nature the simplicity, the suffering, the patience, the imagination, the grand poverty of Ericson, were irresistibly attractive. Add to this that she became his nurse, and soon saw that he was not indifferent to her–and if she fell in love with him as only a full-grown woman can love, without Ericson’s lips saying anything that might not by Love’s jealousy be interpreted as only of grateful affection, why should she not?

And what of Marjory Lindsay? Ericson had not forgotten her. But the brightest star must grow pale as the sun draws near; and on Ericson there were two suns rising at once on the low sea-shore of life whereon he had been pacing up and down moodily for three-and-twenty years, listening evermore to the unprogressive rise and fall of the tidal waves, all talking of the eternal, all unable to reveal it–the sun of love and the sun of death. Mysie and he had never met. She pleased his imagination; she touched his heart with her helplessness; but she gave him no welcome to the shrine of her beauty: he loved through admiration and pity. He broke no faith to her; for he had never offered her any save in looks, and she had not accepted it. She was but a sickly plant grown in a hot-house. On his death-bed he found a woman a hiding-place from the wind, a covert from the tempest, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land! A strong she-angel with mighty wings, Mary St. John came behind him as he fainted out of life, tempered the burning heat of the Sun of Death, and laid him to sleep in the cool twilight of her glorious shadow. In the stead of trouble about a wilful, thoughtless girl, he found repose and protection and motherhood in a great-hearted woman.

For Ericson’s sake, Robert made some effort to preserve the acquaintance of Mr. Lindsay and his daughter. But he could hardly keep up a conversation with Mr. Lindsay, and Mysie showed herself utterly indifferent to him even in the way of common friendship. He told her of Ericson’s illness: she said she was sorry to hear it, and looked miles away. He could never get within a certain atmosphere of–what shall I call it? avertedness that surrounded her. She had always lived in a dream of unrealities; and the dream had almost devoured her life.

One evening Shargar was later than usual in coming home from the walk, or ramble rather, without which he never could settle down to his work. He knocked at Robert’s door.

‘Whaur do ye think I’ve been, Robert?’

‘Hoo suld I ken, Shargar?’ answered Robert, puzzling over a problem.

‘I’ve been haein’ a glaiss wi’ Jock Mitchell.’

‘Wha’s Jock Mitchell?’

‘My brither Sandy’s groom, as I tellt ye afore.’

‘Ye dinna think I can min’ a’ your havers, Shargar. Whaur was the comin’ gentleman whan ye gaed to drink wi’ a chield like that, wha, gin my memory serves me, ye tauld me yersel’ was i’ the mids o’ a’ his maister’s deevilry?’

‘Yer memory serves ye weel eneuch to be doon upo’ me,’ said Shargar. ‘But there’s a bit wordy ‘at they read at the cathedral kirk the last Sunday ‘at’s stucken to me as gin there was something by ordinar’ in ‘t.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Robert, pretending to go on with his calculations all the time.

‘Ow, nae muckle; only this: “Judge not, that ye be not judged.”–I took a lesson frae Jeck the giant-killer, wi’ the Welsh giant–was ‘t Blunderbore they ca’d him?–an’ poored the maist o’ my glaiss doon my breist. It wasna like ink; it wadna du my sark ony ill.’

‘But what garred ye gang wi’ ‘im at a’? He wasna fit company for a gentleman.’

‘A gentleman ‘s some saft gin he be ony the waur o’ the company he gangs in till. There may be rizzons, ye ken. Ye needna du as they du. Jock Mitchell was airin’ Reid Rorie an’ Black Geordie. An’ says I–for I wantit to ken whether I was sic a breme-buss (broom-bush) as I used to be–says I, “Hoo are ye, Jock Mitchell?” An’ says Jock, “Brawly. Wha the deevil are ye?” An’ says I, “Nae mair o’ a deevil nor yersel’, Jock Mitchell, or Alexander, Baron Rothie, either–though maybe that’s no little o’ ane.” “Preserve me!” cried Jock, “it’s Shargar.”–“Nae mair o’ that, Jock,” says I. “Gin I bena a gentleman, or a’ be dune,”–an’ there I stack, for I saw I was a muckle fule to lat oot onything o’ the kin’ to Jock. And sae he seemed to think, too, for he brak oot wi’ a great guffaw; an’ to win ower ‘t, I jined, an’ leuch as gin naething was farrer aff frae my thochts than ever bein’ a gentleman. “Whaur do ye pit up, Jock?” I said. “Oot by here,” he answert, “at Luckie Maitlan’s.”–“That’s a queer place for a baron to put up, Jock,” says I. “There’s rizzons,” says he, an’ lays his forefinger upo’ the side o’ ‘s nose, o’ whilk there was hardly eneuch to haud it ohn gane intil the opposit ee. “We’re no far frae there,” says I–an’ deed I can hardly tell ye, Robert, what garred me say sae, but I jist wantit to ken what that gentleman-brither o’ mine was efter; “tak the horse hame,” says I–“I’ll jist loup upo’ Black Geordie–an’ we’ll hae a glaiss thegither. I’ll stan’ treat.” Sae he gae me the bridle, an’ I lap on. The deevil tried to get a moufu’ o’ my hip, but, faith! I was ower swack for ‘im; an’ awa we rade.’

‘I didna ken ‘at ye cud ride, Shargar.’

‘Hoots! I cudna help it. I was aye takin’ the horse to the watter at The Boar’s Heid, or The Royal Oak, or Lucky Happit’s, or The Aucht an’ Furty. That’s hoo I cam to ken Jock sae weel. We war guid eneuch frien’s whan I didna care for leein’ or sweirin’, an’ sic like.’

‘And what on earth did ye want wi’ ‘im noo?’

‘I tell ye I wantit to ken what that ne’er-do-weel brither o’ mine was efter. I had seen the horses stan’in’ aboot twa or three times i’ the gloamin’; an’ Sandy maun be aboot ill gin he be aboot onything.’

‘What can ‘t maitter to you, Shargar, what a man like him ‘s aboot?’

‘Weel, ye see, Robert, my mither aye broucht me up to ken a’ ‘at fowk was aboot, for she said ye cud never tell whan it micht turn oot to the weelfaur o’ yer advantage–gran’ words!–I wonner whaur she forgathert wi’ them. But she was a terrible wuman, my mither, an’ kent a heap o’ things–mair nor ’twas gude to ken, maybe. She gaed aboot the country sae muckle, an’ they say the gipsies she gaed amang ‘s a dreadfu’ auld fowk, an’ hae the wisdom o’ the Egyptians ‘at Moses wad hae naething to do wi’.’

‘Whaur is she noo?’

‘I dinna ken. She may turn up ony day.’

‘There’s ae thing, though, Shargar: gin ye want to be a gentleman, ye maunna gang keekin’ that gate intil ither fowk’s affairs.’

‘Weel, I maun gie ‘t up. I winna say a word o’ what Jock Mitchell tellt me aboot Lord Sandy.’

‘Ow, say awa’.’

‘Na, na; ye wadna like to hear aboot ither fowk’s affairs. My mither tellt me he did verra ill efter Watterloo till a fremt (stranger) lass at Brussels. But that’s neither here nor there. I maun set aboot my version, or I winna get it dune the nicht.’

‘What is Lord Sandy after? What did the rascal tell you? Why do you make such a mystery of it?’ said Robert, authoritatively, and in his best English.

”Deed I cudna mak naething o’ ‘m. He winkit an’ he mintit (hinted) an’ he gae me to unnerstan’ ‘at the deevil was efter some lass or ither, but wha–my lad was as dumb ‘s the graveyard about that. Gin I cud only win at that, maybe I cud play him a plisky. But he coupit ower three glasses o’ whusky, an’ the mair he drank the less he wad say. An’ sae I left him.’

‘Well, take care what you’re about, Shargar. I don’t think Dr. Anderson would like you to be in such company,’ said Robert; and Shargar departed to his own room and his version.

Towards the end of the session Miss St. John’s reports of Ericson were worse. Yet he was very hopeful himself, and thought he was getting better fast. Every relapse he regarded as temporary; and when he got a little better, thought he had recovered his original position. It was some relief to Miss St. John to communicate her anxiety to Robert.

After the distribution of the prizes, of which he gained three, Robert went the same evening to visit Dr. Anderson, intending to go home the next day. The doctor gave him five golden sovereigns–a rare sight in Scotland. Robert little thought in what service he was about to spend them.

CHAPTER XXII.

ROBERT IN ACTION.

It was late when he left his friend. As he walked through the Gallowgate, an ancient narrow street, full of low courts, some one touched him upon the arm. He looked round. It was a young woman. He turned again to walk on.

‘Mr Faukner,’ she said, in a trembling voice, which Robert thought he had heard before.

He stopped.

‘I don’t know you,’ he said. ‘I can’t see your face. Tell me who you are.’

She returned no answer, but stood with her head aside. He could see that her hands shook.

‘What do you want with me–if you won’t say who you are?’

‘I want to tell you something,’ she said; ‘but I canna speyk here. Come wi’ me.’

‘I won’t go with you without knowing who you are or where you’re going to take me.’

‘Dinna ye ken me?’ she said pitifully, turning a little towards the light of the gas-lamp, and looking up in his face.

‘It canna be Jessie Hewson?’ said Robert, his heart swelling at the sight of the pale worn countenance of the girl.

‘I was Jessie Hewson ance,’ she said, ‘but naebody here kens me by that name but yersel’. Will ye come in? There’s no a crater i’ the hoose but mysel’.’

Robert turned at once. ‘Go on,’ he said.

She led the way up a narrow stone stair between two houses. A door high up in the gable admitted them. The boards bent so much under his weight that Robert feared the floor would fall.

‘Bide ye there, sir, till I fess a licht,’ she said.

This was Robert’s first introduction to a phase of human life with which he became familiar afterwards.

‘Mind hoo ye gang, sir,’ she resumed, returning with a candle. ‘There’s nae flurin’ there. Haud i’ the middle efter me, or ye’ll gang throu.’

She led him into a room, with nothing in it but a bed, a table, and a chair. On the table was a half-made shirt. In the bed lay a tiny baby, fast asleep. It had been locked up alone in the dreary garret. Robert approached to look at the child, for his heart felt very warm to poor Jessie.

‘A bonnie bairnie,’ he said,

‘Isna he, sir? Think o’ ‘im comin’ to me! Nobody can tell the mercy o’ ‘t. Isna it strange that the verra sin suld bring an angel frae haven upo’ the back o’ ‘t to uphaud an’ restore the sinner? Fowk thinks it’s a punishment; but eh me! it’s a mercifu’ ane. It’s a wonner he didna think shame to come to me. But he cam to beir my shame.’

Robert wondered at her words. She talked of her sin with such a meek openness! She looked her shame in the face, and acknowledged it hers. Had she been less weak and worn, perhaps she could not have spoken thus.

‘But what am I aboot!’ she said, checking herself. ‘I didna fess ye here to speyk aboot mysel’. He’s efter mair mischeef, and gin onything cud be dune to haud him frae ‘t–‘

‘Wha’s efter mischeef, Jessie?’ interrupted Robert.

‘Lord Rothie. He’s gaein’ aff the nicht in Skipper Hornbeck’s boat to Antwerp, I think they ca’ ‘t, an’ a bonnie young leddy wi’ ‘im. They war to sail wi’ the first o’ the munelicht.–Surely I’m nae ower late,’ she added, going to the window. ‘Na, the mune canna be up yet.’

‘Na,’ said Robert; ‘I dinna think she rises muckle afore twa o’clock the nicht. But hoo ken ye? Are ye sure o’ ‘t? It’s an awfu’ thing to think o’.’

‘To convence ye, I maun jist tell ye the trowth. The hoose we’re in hasna a gude character. We’re middlin’ dacent up here; but the lave o’ the place is dreadfu’. Eh for the bonnie leys o’ Bodyfauld! Gin ye see my father, tell him I’m nane waur than I was.’

‘They think ye droont i’ the Dyer’s Pot, as they ca’ ‘t.’

‘There I am again!’ she said–‘miles awa’ an’ nae time to be lost!–My lord has a man they ca’ Mitchell. Ower weel I ken him. There’s a wuman doon the stair ‘at he comes to see whiles; an’ twa or three nichts ago, I heard them lauchin’ thegither. Sae I hearkened. They war baith some fou, I’m thinkin’. I cudna tell ye a’ ‘at they said. That’s a punishment noo, gin ye like–to see and hear the warst o’ yer ain ill doin’s. He tellt the limmer a heap o’ his lord’s secrets. Ay, he tellt her aboot me, an’ hoo I had gane and droont mysel’. I could hear ‘maist ilka word ‘at he said; for ye see the flurin’ here ‘s no verra soon’, and I was jist ‘at I cudna help hearkenin’. My lord’s aff the nicht, as I tell ye. It’s a queer gait, but a quaiet, he thinks, nae doobt. Gin onybody wad but tell her hoo mony een the baron’s made sair wi’ greitin’!’

‘But hoo’s that to be dune?’ said Robert.

‘I dinna ken. But I hae been watchin’ to see you ever sin’ syne. I hae seen ye gang by mony a time. Ye’re the only man I ken ‘at I could speyk till aboot it. Ye maun think what ye can do. The warst o’ ‘t is I canna tell wha she is or whaur she bides.’

‘In that case, I canna see what’s to be dune.’

‘Cudna ye watch them aboord, an’ slip a letter intil her han’? Or ye cud gie ‘t to the skipper to gie her.’

‘I ken the skipper weel eneuch. He’s a respectable man. Gin he kent what the baron was efter, he wadna tak him on boord.’

‘That wad do little guid. He wad only hae her aff some ither gait.’

‘Weel,’ said Robert, rising, ‘I’ll awa’ hame, an’ think aboot it as I gang.–Wad ye tak a feow shillin’s frae an auld frien’?’ he added with hesitation, putting his hand in his pocket.

‘Na–no a baubee,’ she answered. ‘Nobody sall say it was for mysel’ I broucht ye here. Come efter me, an’ min’ whaur ye pit doon yer feet. It’s no sicker.’

She led him to the door. He bade her good-night.

‘Tak care ye dinna fa’ gaein’ doon the stair. It’s maist as steep ‘s a wa’.’

As Robert came from between the houses, he caught a glimpse of a man in a groom’s dress going in at the street door of that he had left.

All the natural knighthood in him was roused. But what could he do? To write was a sneaking way. He would confront the baron. The baron and the girl would both laugh at him. The sole conclusion he could arrive at was to consult Shargar.

He lost no time in telling him the story.

‘I tauld ye he was up to some deevilry or ither,’ said Shargar. ‘I can shaw ye the verra hoose he maun be gaein’ to tak her frae.’

‘Ye vratch! what for didna ye tell me that afore?’

‘Ye wadna hear aboot ither fowk’s affairs. Na, not you! But some fowk has no richt to consideration. The verra stanes they say ‘ill cry oot ill secrets like brither Sandy’s.’

‘Whase hoose is ‘t?’

‘I dinna ken. I only saw him come oot o’ ‘t ance, an’ Jock Mitchell was haudin’ Black Geordie roon’ the neuk. It canna be far frae Mr. Lindsay’s ‘at you an’ Mr. Ericson used to gang till.’

‘Come an’ lat me see ‘t direckly,’ cried Robert, starting up, with a terrible foreboding at his heart.

They were in the street in a moment. Shargar led the way by a country lane to the top of the hill on the right, and then turning to the left, brought him to some houses standing well apart from each other. It was a region unknown to Robert. They were the backs of the houses of which Mr. Lindsay’s was one.

‘This is the hoose,’ said Shargar.

Robert rushed into action. He knocked at the door. Mr. Lindsay’s Jenny opened it.

‘Is yer mistress in, Jenny?’ he asked at once.

‘Na. Ay. The maister’s gane to Bors Castle.’

‘It’s Miss Lindsay I want to see.’

‘She’s up in her ain room wi’ a sair heid.’

Robert looked her hard in the face, and knew she was lying.

‘I want to see her verra partic’lar,’ he said.

‘Weel, ye canna see her,’ returned Jenny angrily. ‘I’ll tell her onything ye like.’

Concluding that little was to be gained by longer parley, but quite uncertain whether Mysie was in the house or not, Robert turned to Shargar, took him by the arm, and walked away in silence. When they were beyond earshot of Jenny, who stood looking after them,

‘Ye’re sure that’s the hoose, Shargar?’ said Robert quietly.

‘As sure’s deith, and maybe surer, for I saw him come oot wi’ my ain een.’

‘Weel, Shargar, it’s grown something awfu’ noo. It’s Miss Lindsay. Was there iver sic a villain as that Lord Rothie–that brither o’ yours!’

‘I disoun ‘im frae this verra ‘oor,’ said Shargar solemnly.

‘Something maun be dune. We’ll awa’ to the quay, an’ see what’ll turn up. I wonner hoo’s the tide.’

‘The tide’s risin’. They’ll never try to win oot till it’s slack watter–furbye ‘at the Amphitrite, for as braid ‘s she is, and her bows modelled efter the cheeks o’ a resurrection cherub upo’ a gravestane, draws a heap o’ watter: an’ the bar they say ‘s waur to win ower nor usual: it’s been gatherin’ again.’

As they spoke, the boys were making for the new town, eagerly. Just opposite where the Amphitrite lay was a public-house: into that they made up their minds to go, and there to write a letter, which they would give to Miss Lindsay if they could, or, if not, leave with Skipper Hoornbeek. Before they reached the river, a thick rain of minute drops began to fall, rendering the night still darker, so that they could scarcely see the vessels from the pavement on the other side of the quay, along which they were hurrying, to avoid the cables, rings, and stone posts that made its margin dangerous in the dim light. When they came to The Smack Inn they crossed right over to reach the Amphitrite. A growing fear kept them silent as they approached her berth. It was empty. They turned and stared at each other in dismay.

One of those amphibious animals that loiter about the borders of the water was seated on a stone smoking, probably fortified against the rain by the whisky inside him.

‘Whaur’s the Amphitrite, Alan?’ asked Shargar, for Robert was dumb with disappointment and rage.

‘Half doon to Stanehive by this time, I’m thinkin’,’ answered Alan. ‘For a brewin’ tub like her, she fummles awa nae ill wi’ a licht win’ astarn o’ her. But I’m doobtin’ afore she win across the herrin-pot her fine passengers ‘ll win at the boddom o’ their stamacks. It’s like to blaw a bonnetfu’, and she rows awfu’ in ony win’. I dinna think she cud capsize, but for wamlin’ she’s waur nor a bairn with the grips.’

In absolute helplessness, the boys had let him talk on: there was nothing more to be done; and Alan was in a talkative mood.

‘Fegs! gin ‘t come on to blaw,’ he resumed, ‘I wadna wonner gin they got the skipper to set them ashore at Stanehive. I heard auld Horny say something aboot lyin’ to there for a bit, to tak a keg or something aboord.’

The boys looked at each other, bade Alan good-night, and walked away.

‘Hoo far is ‘t to Stonehaven, Shargar?’ said Robert.

‘I dinna richtly ken. Maybe frae twal to fifteen mile.’

Robert stood still. Shargar saw his face pale as death, and contorted with the effort to control his feelings.

‘Shargar,’ he said, ‘what am I to do? I vowed to Mr. Ericson that, gin he deid, I wad luik efter that bonny lassie. An’ noo whan he’s lyin’ a’ but deid, I hae latten her slip throu’ my fingers wi’ clean carelessness. What am I to do? Gin I cud only win to Stonehaven afore the Amphitrite! I cud gang aboord wi’ the keg, and gin I cud do naething mair, I wad hae tried to do my best. Gin I do naething, my hert ‘ll brak wi’ the weicht o’ my shame.’

Shargar burst into a roar of laughter. Robert was on the point of knocking him down, but took him by the throat as a milder proceeding, and shook him.

‘Robert! Robert!’ gurgled Shargar, as soon as his choking had overcome his merriment, ‘ye’re an awfu’ Hielan’man. Hearken to me. I beg–g–g yer pardon. What I was thinkin’ o’ was–‘

Robert relaxed his hold. But Shargar, notwithstanding the lesson Robert had given him, could hardly speak yet for the enjoyment of his own device.

‘Gin we could only get rid o’ Jock Mitchell!–‘ he crowed; and burst out again.

‘He’s wi’ a wuman i’ the Gallowgate,’ said Robert.

‘Losh, man!’ exclaimed Shargar, and started off at full speed.

He was no match for his companion, however.

‘Whaur the deevil are ye rinnin’ till, ye wirrycow (scarecrow)?’ panted Robert, as he laid hold of his collar.

‘Lat me gang, Robert,’ gasped Shargar. ‘Losh, man! ye’ll be on Black Geordie in anither ten meenits, an’ me ahin’ ye upo’ Reid Rorie. An’ faith gin we binna at Stanehive afore the Dutchman wi’ ‘s boddom foremost, it’ll be the faut o’ the horse and no o’ the men.’

Robert’s heart gave a bound of hope.

‘Hoo ‘ill ye get them, Shargar?’ he asked eagerly.

‘Steal them,’ answered Shargar, struggling to get away from the grasp still upon his collar.

‘We micht be hanged for that.’

‘Weel, Robert, I’ll tak a’ the wyte o’ ‘t. Gin it hadna been for you, I micht ha’ been hangt by this time for ill doin’: for your sake I’ll be hangt for weel doin’, an’ welcome. Come awa’. To steal a mairch upo’ brither Sandy wi’ aucht (eight) horse-huves o’ ‘s ain! Ha! ha! ha!’

They sped along, now running themselves out of breath, now walking themselves into it again, until they reached a retired hostelry between the two towns. Warning Robert not to show himself, Shargar disappeared round the corner of the house.

Robert grew weary, and then anxious. At length Shargar’s face came through the darkness.

‘Robert,’ he whispered, ‘gie ‘s yer bonnet. I’ll be wi’ ye in a moment noo.’

Robert obeyed, too anxious to question him. In about three minutes more Shargar reappeared, leading what seemed the ghost of a black horse; for Robert could see only his eyes, and his hoofs made scarcely any noise. How he had managed it with a horse of Black Geordie’s temper, I do not know, but some horses will let some persons do anything with them: he had drawn his own stockings over his fore feet, and tied their two caps upon his hind hoofs.

‘Lead him awa’ quaietly up the road till I come to ye,’ said Shargar, as he took the mufflings off the horse’s feet. ‘An’ min’ ‘at he doesna tak a nip o’ ye. He’s some ill for bitin’. I’ll be efter ye direckly. Rorie’s saiddlet an’ bridled. He only wants his carpet-shune.’

Robert led the horse a few hundred yards, then stopped and waited. Shargar soon joined him, already mounted on Red Roderick.

‘Here’s yer bonnet, Robert. It’s some foul, I doobt. But I cudna help it. Gang on, man. Up wi’ ye. Maybe I wad hae better keepit Geordie mysel’. But ye can ride. Ance ye’re on, he canna bite ye.’

But Robert needed no encouragement from Shargar. In his present mood he would have mounted a griffin. He was on horseback in a moment. They trotted gently through the streets, and out of the town. Once over the Dee, they gave their horses the rein, and off they went through the dark drizzle. Before they got half-way they were wet to the skin; but little did Robert, or Shargar either, care for that. Not many words passed between them.

‘Hoo ‘ill ye get the horse (plural) in again, Shargar?’ asked Robert.

‘Afore I get them back,’ answered Shargar, ‘they’ll be tired eneuch to gang hame o’ themsel’s. Gin we had only had the luck to meet Jock!–that wad hae been gran’.’

‘What for that?’

‘I wad hae cawed Reid Rorie ower the heid o’ ‘m, an’ left him lyin’–the coorse villain!’

The horses never flagged till they drew up in the main street of Stonehaven. Robert ran down to the harbour to make inquiry, and left Shargar to put them up.

The moon had risen, but the air was so full of vapour that she only succeeded in melting the darkness a little. The sea rolled in front, awful in its dreariness, under just light enough to show a something unlike the land. But the rain had ceased, and the air was clearer. Robert asked a solitary man, with a telescope in his hand, whether he was looking out for the Amphitrite. The man asked him gruffly in return what he knew of her. Possibly the nature of the keg to be put on board had something to do with his Scotch reply. Robert told him he was a friend of the captain, had missed the boat, and would give any one five shillings to put him on board. The man went away and returned with a companion. After some further questioning and bargaining, they agreed to take him. Robert loitered about the pier full of impatience. Shargar joined him.

Day began to break over the waves. They gleamed with a blue-gray leaden sheen. The men appeared coming along the harbour, and descended by a stair into a little skiff, where a barrel, or something like one, lay under a tarpaulin. Robert bade Shargar good-bye, and followed. They pushed off, rowed out into the bay, and lay on their oars waiting for the vessel. The light grew apace, and Robert fancied he could distinguish the two horses with one rider against the sky on the top of the cliffs, moving northwards. Turning his eyes to the sea, he saw the canvas of the brig, and his heart beat fast. The men bent to their oars. She drew nearer, and lay to. When they reached her he caught the rope the sailors threw, was on board in a moment, and went aft to the captain. The Dutchman stared. In a few words Robert made him understand his object, offering to pay for his passage, but the good man would not hear of it. He told him that the lady and gentleman had come on board as brother and sister: the baron was too knowing to run his head into the noose of Scotch law.

‘I cannot throw him over the board,’ said the skipper; ‘and what am I to do? I am afraid it is of no use. Ah! poor thing!’

By this time the vessel was under way. The wind freshened. Mysie had been ill ever since they left the month of the river: now she was much worse. Before another hour passed, she was crying to be taken home to her papa. Still the wind increased, and the vessel laboured much.

Robert never felt better, and if it had not been for the cause of his sea-faring, would have thoroughly enjoyed it. He put on some sea-going clothes of the captain’s, and set himself to take his share in working the brig, in which he was soon proficient enough to be useful. When the sun rose, they were in a tossing wilderness of waves. With the sunrise, Robert began to think he had been guilty of a great folly. For what could he do? How was he to prevent the girl from going off with her lover the moment they landed? But his poor attempt would verify his willingness.

The baron came on deck now and then, looking bored. He had not calculated on having to nurse the girl. Had Mysie been well, he could have amused himself with her, for he found her ignorance interesting. As it was, he felt injured, and indeed disgusted at the result of the experiment.

On the third day the wind abated a little; but towards night it blew hard again, and it was not until they reached the smooth waters of the Scheldt that Mysie made her appearance on deck, looking dreadfully ill, and altogether like a miserable, unhappy child. Her beauty was greatly gone, and Lord Rothie did not pay her much attention.

Robert had as yet made no attempt to communicate with her, for there was scarcely a chance of her concealing a letter from the baron. But as soon as they were in smooth water, he wrote one, telling her in the simplest language that the baron was a bad man, who had amused himself by making many women fall in love with him, and then leaving them miserable: he knew one of them himself.

Having finished his letter, he began to look abroad over the smooth water, and the land smooth as the water. He saw tall poplars, the spires of the forest, and rows of round-headed dumpy trees, like domes. And he saw that all the buildings like churches, had either spires like poplars, or low round domes like those other trees. The domes gave an eastern aspect to the country. The spire of Antwerp cathedral especially had the poplar for its model. The pinnacles which rose from the base of each successive start of its narrowing height were just the clinging, upright branches of the poplar–a lovely instance of Art following Nature’s suggestion.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ROBERT FINDS A NEW INSTRUMENT.

At length the vessel lay alongside the quay, and as Mysie stepped from its side the skipper found an opportunity of giving her Robert’s letter. It was the poorest of chances, but Robert could think of no other. She started on receiving it, but regarding the skipper’s significant gestures put it quietly away. She looked anything but happy, for her illness had deprived her of courage, and probably roused her conscience. Robert followed the pair, saw them enter The Great Labourer–what could the name mean? could it mean The Good Shepherd?–and turned away helpless, objectless indeed, for he had done all that he could, and that all was of no potency. A world of innocence and beauty was about to be hurled from its orbit of light into the blackness of outer chaos; he knew it, and was unable to speak word or do deed that should frustrate the power of a devil who so loved himself that he counted it an honour to a girl to have him for her ruin. Her after life had no significance for him, save as a trophy of his victory. He never perceived that such victory was not yielded to him; that he gained it by putting on the garments of light; that if his inward form had appeared in its own ugliness, not one of the women whose admiration he had secured would not have turned from him as from the monster of an old tale.

Robert wandered about till he was so weary that his head ached with weariness. At length he came upon the open space before the cathedral, whence the poplar-spire rose aloft into a blue sky flecked with white clouds. It was near sunset, and he could not see the sun, but the upper half of the spire shone glorious in its radiance. From the top his eye sank to the base. In the base was a little door half open. Might not that be the lowly narrow entrance through the shadow up to the sun-filled air? He drew near with a kind of tremor, for never before had he gazed upon visible grandeur growing out of the human soul, in the majesty of everlastingness–a tree of the Lord’s planting. Where had been but an empty space of air and light and darkness, had risen, and had stood for ages, a mighty wonder awful to the eye, solid to the hand. He peeped through the opening of the door: there was the foot of a stair–marvellous as the ladder of Jacob’s dream–turning away towards the unknown. He pushed the door and entered. A man appeared and barred his advance. Robert put his hand in his pocket and drew out some silver. The man took one piece–looked at it–turned it over–put it in his pocket, and led the way up the stair. Robert followed and followed and followed.

He came out of stone walls upon an airy platform whence the spire ascended heavenwards. His conductor led upward still, and he followed, winding within a spiral network of stone, through which all the world looked in. Another platform, and yet another spire springing from its basement. Still up they went, and at length stood on a circle of stone surrounding like a coronet the last base of the spire which lifted its apex untrodden. Then Robert turned and looked below. He grasped the stones before him. The loneliness was awful.

There was nothing between him and the roofs of the houses, four hundred feet below, but the spot where he stood. The whole city, with its red roofs, lay under him. He stood uplifted on the genius of the builder, and the town beneath him was a toy. The all but featureless flat spread forty miles on every side, and the roofs of the largest buildings below were as dovecots. But the space between was alive with awe–so vast, so real!

He turned and descended, winding through the network of stone which was all between him and space. The object of the architect must have been to melt away the material from before the eyes of the spirit. He hung in the air in a cloud of stone. As he came in his descent within the ornaments of one of the basements, he found himself looking through two thicknesses of stone lace on the nearing city. Down there was the beast of prey and his victim; but for the moment he was above the region of sorrow. His weariness and his headache had vanished utterly. With his mind tossed on its own speechless delight, he was slowly descending still, when he saw on his left hand a door ajar. He would look what mystery lay within. A push opened it. He discovered only a little chamber lined with wood. In the centre stood something–a bench-like piece of furniture, plain and worn. He advanced a step; peered over the top of it; saw keys, white and black; saw pedals below: it was an organ! Two strides brought him in front of it. A wooden stool, polished and hollowed with centuries of use, was before it. But where was the bellows? That might be down hundreds of steps below, for he was half-way only to the ground. He seated himself musingly, and struck, as he thought, a dumb chord. Responded, up in the air, far overhead, a mighty booming clang. Startled, almost frightened, even as if Mary St. John had said she loved him, Robert sprung from the stool, and, without knowing why, moved only by the chastity of delight, flung the door to the post. It banged and clicked. Almost mad with the joy of the titanic instrument, he seated himself again at the keys, and plunged into a tempest of clanging harmony. One hundred bells hang in that tower of wonder, an instrument for a city, nay, for a kingdom. Often had Robert dreamed that he was the galvanic centre of a thunder-cloud of harmony, flashing off from every finger the willed lightning tone: such was the unexpected scale of this instrument–so far aloft in the sunny air rang the responsive notes, that his dream appeared almost realized. The music, like a fountain bursting upwards, drew him up and bore him aloft. From the resounding cone of bells overhead he no longer heard their tones proceed, but saw level-winged forms of light speeding off with a message to the nations. It was only his roused phantasy; but a sweet tone is nevertheless a messenger of God; and a right harmony and sequence of such tones is a little gospel.

At length he found himself following, till that moment unconsciously, the chain of tunes he well remembered having played on his violin the night he went first with Ericson to see Mysie, ending with his strange chant about the witch lady and the dead man’s hand.

Ere he had finished the last, his passion had begun to fold its wings, and he grew dimly aware of a beating at the door of the solitary chamber in which he sat. He knew nothing of the enormity of which he was guilty–presenting unsought the city of Antwerp with a glorious phantasia. He did not know that only upon grand, solemn, world-wide occasions, such as a king’s birthday or a ball at the Hôtel de Ville, was such music on the card. When he flung the door to, it had closed with a spring lock, and for the last quarter of an hour three gens-d’arme, commanded by the sacristan of the tower, had been thundering thereat. He waited only to finish the last notes of the wild Orcadian chant, and opened the door. He was seized by the collar, dragged down the stair into the street, and through a crowd of wondering faces–poor unconscious dreamer! it will not do to think on the house-top even, and you had been dreaming very loud indeed in the church spire–away to the bureau of the police.

CHAPTER XXIV.

DEATH.

I need not recount the proceedings of the Belgian police; how they interrogated Robert concerning a letter from Mary St. John which they found in an inner pocket; how they looked doubtful over a copy of Horace that lay in his coat, and put evidently a momentous question about some algebraical calculations on the fly-leaf of it. Fortunately or unfortunately–I do not know which–Robert did not understand a word they said to him. He was locked up, and left to fret for nearly a week; though what he could have done had he been at liberty, he knew as little as I know. At last, long after it was useless to make any inquiry about Miss Lindsay, he was set at liberty. He could just pay for a steerage passage to London, whence he wrote to Dr. Anderson for a supply, and was in Aberdeen a few days after.

This was Robert’s first cosmopolitan experience. He confided the whole affair to the doctor, who approved of all, saying it could have been of no use, but he had done right. He advised him to go home at once, for he had had letters inquiring after him. Ericson was growing steadily worse–in fact, he feared Robert might not see him alive.

If this news struck Robert to the heart, his pain was yet not without some poor alleviation:–he need not tell Ericson about Mysie, but might leave him to find out the truth when, free of a dying body, he would be better able to bear it. That very night he set off on foot for Rothieden. There was no coach from Aberdeen till eight the following morning, and before that he would be there.

It was a dreary journey without Ericson. Every turn of the road reminded him of him. And Ericson too was going a lonely unknown way.

Did ever two go together upon that way? Might not two die together and not lose hold of each other all the time, even when the sense of the clasping hands was gone, and the soul had withdrawn itself from the touch? Happy they who prefer the will of God to their own even in this, and would, as the best friend, have him near who can be near–him who made the fourth in the fiery furnace! Fable or fact, reader, I do not care. The One I mean is, and in him I hope.

Very weary was Robert when he walked into his grandmother’s house.

Betty came out of the kitchen at the sound of his entrance.

‘Is Mr. Ericson–?’

‘Na; he’s nae deid,’ she answered. ‘He’ll maybe live a day or twa, they say.’

‘Thank God!’ said Robert, and went to his grandmother.

‘Eh, laddie!’ said Mrs. Falconer, the first greetings over, ‘ane ‘s ta’en an’ anither ‘s left! but what for ‘s mair nor I can faddom. There’s that fine young man, Maister Ericson, at deith’s door; an’ here am I, an auld runklet wife, left to cry upo’ deith, an’ he winna hear me.’

‘Cry upo’ God, grannie, an’ no upo’ deith,’ said Robert, catching at the word as his grandmother herself might have done. He had no such unfair habit when I knew him, and always spoke to one’s meaning, not one’s words. But then he had a wonderful gift of knowing what one’s meaning was.

He did not sit down, but, tired as he was, went straight to The Boar’s Head. He met no one in the archway, and walked up to Ericson’s room. When he opened the door, he found the large screen on the other side, and hearing a painful cough, lingered behind it, for he could not control his feelings sufficiently. Then he heard a voice–Ericson’s voice; but oh, how changed!–He had no idea that he ought not to listen.

‘Mary,’ the voice said, ‘do not look like that. I am not suffering. It is only my body. Your arm round me makes me so strong! Let me lay my head on your shoulder.’

A brief pause followed.

‘But, Eric,’ said Mary’s voice, ‘there is one that loves you better than I do.’

‘If there is,’ returned Ericson, feebly, ‘he has sent his angel to deliver me.’

‘But you do believe in him, Eric?’

The voice expressed anxiety no less than love.

‘I am going to see. There is no other way. When I find him, I shall believe in him. I shall love him with all my heart, I know. I love the thought of him now.’

‘But that’s not himself, my–darling!’ she said.

‘No. But I cannot love himself till I find him. Perhaps there is no Jesus.’

‘Oh, don’t say that. I can’t bear to hear you talk so,’

‘But, dear heart, if you’re so sure of him, do you think he would turn me away because I don’t do what I can’t do? I would if I could with all my heart. If I were to say I believed in him, and then didn’t trust him, I could understand it. But when it’s only that I’m not sure about what I never saw, or had enough of proof to satisfy me of, how can he be vexed at that? You seem to me to do him great wrong, Mary. Would you now banish me for ever, if I should, when my brain is wrapped in the clouds of death, forget you along with everything else for a moment?’

‘No, no, no. Don’t talk like that, Eric, dear. There may be reasons, you know.’

‘I know what they say well enough. But I expect Him, if there is a Him, to be better even than you, my beautiful–and I don’t know a fault in you, but that you believe in a God you can’t trust. If I believed in a God, wouldn’t I trust him just? And I do hope in him. We’ll see, my darling. When we meet again I think you’ll say I was right.’

Robert stood like one turned into marble. Deep called unto deep in his soul. The waves and the billows went over him.

Mary St. John answered not a word. I think she must have been conscience-stricken. Surely the Son of Man saw nearly as much faith in Ericson as in her. Only she clung to the word as a bond that the Lord had given her: she would rather have his bond.

Ericson had another fit of coughing. Robert heard the rustling of ministration. But in a moment the dying man again took up the word. He seemed almost as anxious about Mary’s faith as she was about his.

‘There’s Robert,’ he said: ‘I do believe that boy would die for me, and I never did anything to deserve it. Now Jesus Christ must be as good as Robert at least. I think he must be a great deal better, if he’s Jesus Christ at all. Now Robert might be hurt if I didn’t believe in him. But I’ve never seen Jesus Christ. It’s all in an old book, over which the people that say they believe in it the most, fight like dogs and cats. I beg your pardon, my Mary; but they do, though the words are ugly.’

‘Ah! but if you had tried it as I’ve tried it, you would know better, Eric.’

‘I think I should, dear. But it’s too late now. I must just go and see. There’s no other way left.’

The terrible cough came again. As soon as the fit was over, with a grand despair in his heart, Robert went from behind the screen.

Ericson was on a couch. His head lay on Mary St. John’s bosom. Neither saw him.

‘Perhaps,’ said Ericson, panting with death, ‘a kiss in heaven may be as good as being married on earth, Mary.’

She saw Robert and did not answer. Then Eric saw him. He smiled; but Mary grew very pale.

Robert came forward, stooped and kissed Ericson’s forehead, kneeled and kissed Mary’s hand, rose and went out.

>From that moment they were both dead to him. Dead, I say–not lost, not estranged, but dead–that is, awful and holy. He wept for Eric. He did not weep for Mary yet. But he found a time.

Ericson died two days after.

Here endeth Robert’s youth.

CHAPTER XXV.

IN MEMORIAM.

In memory of Eric Ericson, I add a chapter of sonnets gathered from his papers, almost desiring that those only should read them who turn to the book a second time. How his papers came into my possession, will be explained afterwards.

Tumultuous rushing o’er the outstretched plains; A wildered maze of comets and of suns;
The blood of changeless God that ever runs With quick diastole up the immortal veins; A phantom host that moves and works in chains; A monstrous fiction which, collapsing, stuns The mind to stupor and amaze at once;
A tragedy which that man best explains Who rushes blindly on his wild career
With trampling hoofs and sound of mailed war, Who will not nurse a life to win a tear, But is extinguished like a falling star:– Such will at times this life appear to me, Until I learn to read more perfectly.

HOM. IL. v. 403.

If thou art tempted by a thought of ill, Crave not too soon for victory, nor deem Thou art a coward if thy safety seem
To spring too little from a righteous will: For there is nightmare on thee, nor until Thy soul hath caught the morning’s early gleam Seek thou to analyze the monstrous dream By painful introversion; rather fill
Thine eye with forms thou knowest to be truth: But see thou cherish higher hope than this; A hope hereafter that thou shalt be fit
Calm-eyed to face distortion, and to sit Transparent among other forms of youth
Who own no impulse save to God and bliss.

And must I ever wake, gray dawn, to know Thee standing sadly by me like a ghost?
I am perplexed with thee, that thou shouldst cost This Earth another turning: all aglow
Thou shouldst have reached me, with a purple show Along far-mountain tops: and I would post Over the breadth of seas though I were lost In the hot phantom-chase for life, if so Thou camest ever with this numbing sense Of chilly distance and unlovely light;
Waking this gnawing soul anew to fight With its perpetual load: I drive thee hence– I have another mountain-range from whence Bursteh a sun unutterably bright.

GALILEO.

‘And yet it moves!’ Ah, Truth, where wert thou then, When all for thee they racked each piteous limb? Wert though in Heaven, and busy with thy hymn, When those poor hands convulsed that held thy pen? Art thou a phantom that deceivest men
To their undoing? or dost thou watch him Pale, cold, and silent in his dungeon dim? And wilt thou ever speak to him again?
‘It moves, it moves! Alas, my flesh was weak; That was a hideous dream! I’ll cry aloud How the green bulk wheels sunward day by day! Ah me! ah me! perchance my heart was proud That I alone should know that word to speak; And now, sweet Truth, shine upon these, I pray.’

If thou wouldst live the Truth in very deed, Thou hast thy joy, but thou hast more of pain. Others will live in peace, and thou be fain To bargain with despair, and in thy need To make thy meal upon the scantiest weed. These palaces, for thee they stand in vain; Thine is a ruinous hut; and oft the rain Shall drench thee in the midnight; yea the speed Of earth outstrip thee pilgrim, while thy feet Move slowly up the heights. Yet will there come Through the time-rents about thy moving cell, An arrow for despair, and oft the hum
Of far-off populous realms where spirits dwell.

TO * * * *

Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We may not start To find thee with us in thine ancient dress, Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness, Empty of all save God and thy loud heart: Nor with like rugged message quick to dart Into the hideous fiction mean and base:
But yet, O prophet man, we need not less, But more of earnest; though it is thy part To deal in other words, if thou wouldst smite The living Mammon, seated, not as then
In bestial quiescence grimly dight, But thrice as much an idol-god as when
He stared at his own feet from morn to night.8

THE WATCHER.

>From out a windy cleft there comes a gaze Of eyes unearthly which go to and fro
Upon the people’s tumult, for below The nations smite each other: no amaze
Troubles their liquid rolling, or affrays Their deep-set contemplation: steadily glow Those ever holier eye-balls, for they grow Liker unto the eyes of one that prays.
And if those clasped hands tremble, comes a power As of the might of worlds, and they are holden Blessing above us in the sunrise golden; And they will be uplifted till that hour Of terrible rolling which shall rise and shake This conscious nightmare from us and we wake.

THE BELOVED DISCIPLE.

I

One do I see and twelve; but second there Methinks I know thee, thou beloved one;
Not from thy nobler port, for there are none More quiet-featured; some there are who bear Their message on their brows, while others wear A look of large commission, nor will shun The fiery trial, so their work is done:
But thou hast parted with thine eyes in prayer– Unearthly are they both; and so thy lips Seem like the porches of the spirit land; For thou hast laid a mighty treasure by, Unlocked by Him in Nature, and thine eye Burns with a vision and apocalypse
Thy own sweet soul can hardly understand.

II

A Boanerges too! Upon my heart
It lay a heavy hour: features like thine Should glow with other message than the shine Of the earth-burrowing levin, and the start That cleaveth horrid gulfs. Awful and swart A moment stoodest thou, but less divine– Brawny and clad in ruin!–till with mine Thy heart made answering signals, and apart Beamed forth thy two rapt eye-balls doubly clear, And twice as strong because thou didst thy duty, And though affianced to immortal Beauty, Hiddest not weakly underneath her veil
The pest of Sin and Death which maketh pale: Henceforward be thy spirit doubly dear.9

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

There is not any weed but hath its shower, There is not any pool but hath its star; And black and muddy though the waters are, We may not miss the glory of a flower,
And winter moons will give them magic power To spin in cylinders of diamond spar;
And everything hath beauty near and far, And keepeth close and waiteth on its hour. And I when I encounter on my road
A human soul that looketh black and grim, Shall I more ceremonious be than God?
Shall I refuse to watch one hour with him Who once beside our deepest woe did bud
A patient watching flower about the brim.

‘Tis not the violent hands alone that bring The curse, the ravage, and the downward doom Although to these full oft the yawning tomb Owes deadly surfeit; but a keener sting, A more immortal agony, will cling
To the half-fashioned sin which would assume Fair Virtue’s garb. The eye that sows the gloom With quiet seeds of Death henceforth to spring What time the sun of passion burning fierce Breaks through the kindly cloud of circumstance; The bitter word, and the unkindly glance, The crust and canker coming with the years, Are liker Death than arrows, and the lance Which through the living heart at once doth pierce.

SPOKEN OF SEVERAL PHILOSOPHERS.

I pray you, all ye men, who put your trust In moulds and systems and well-tackled gear, Holding that Nature lives from year to year In one continual round because she must– Set me not down, I pray you, in the dust Of all these centuries, like a pot of beer, A pewter-pot disconsolately clear,
Which holds a potful, as is right and just. I will grow clamorous–by the rood, I will, If thus ye use me like a pewter pot.
Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot– I will not be the lead to hold thy swill, Nor any lead: I will arise and spill
Thy silly beverage, spill it piping hot.

Nature, to him no message dost thou bear, Who in thy beauty findeth not the power
To gird himself more strongly for the hour Of night and darkness. Oh, what colours rare The woods, the valleys, and the mountains wear To him who knows thy secret, and in shower And fog, and ice-cloud, hath a secret bower Where he may rest until the heavens are fair! Not with the rest of slumber, but the trance Of onward movement steady and serene,
Where oft in struggle and in contest keen His eyes will opened be, and all the dance Of life break on him, and a wide expanse Roll upward through the void, sunny and green.

TO JUNE.

Ah, truant, thou art here again, I see! For in a season of such wretched weather I thought that thou hadst left us altogether, Although I could not choose but fancy thee Skulking about the hill-tops, whence the glee Of thy blue laughter peeped at times, or rather Thy bashful awkwardness, as doubtful whether Thou shouldst be seen in such a company
Of ugly runaways, unshapely heaps
Of ruffian vapour, broken from restraint Of their slim prison in the ocean deeps. But yet I may not, chide: fall to thy books, Fall to immediately without complaint–
There they are lying, hills and vales and brooks.

WRITTEN ABOUT THE LONGEST DAY.

Summer, sweet Summer, many-fingered Summer! We hold thee very dear, as well we may:
It is the kernel of the year to-day– All hail to thee! Thou art a welcome corner! If every insect were a fairy drummer,
And I a fifer that could deftly play, We’d give the old Earth such a roundelay That she would cast all thought of labour from her Ah! what is this upon my window-pane?
Some sulky drooping cloud comes pouting up, Stamping its glittering feet along the plain! Well, I will let that idle fancy drop.
Oh, how the spouts are bubbling with the rain! And all the earth shines like a silver cup!

ON A MIDGE.

Whence do ye come, ye creature? Each of you Is perfect as an angel; wings and eyes
Stupendous in their beauty–gorgeous dyes In feathery fields of purple and of blue! Would God I saw a moment as ye do!
I would become a molecule in size,
Rest with you, hum with you, or slanting rise Along your one dear sunbeam, could I view The pearly secret which each tiny fly,
Each tiny fly that hums and bobs and stirs, Hides in its little breast eternally
>From you, ye prickly grim philosophers, With all your theories that sound so high: Hark to the buzz a moment, my good sirs!

ON A WATERFALL.

Here stands a giant stone from whose far top Comes down the sounding water. Let me gaze Till every sense of man and human ways
Is wrecked and quenched for ever, and I drop Into the whirl of time, and without stop Pass downward thus! Again my eyes I raise To thee, dark rock; and through the mist and haze My strength returns when I behold thy prop Gleam stern and steady through the wavering wrack Surely thy strength is human, and like me Thou bearest loads of thunder on thy back! And, lo, a smile upon thy visage black– A breezy tuft of grass which I can see
Waving serenely from a sunlit crack!

Above my head the great pine-branches tower Backwards and forwards each to the other bends, Beckoning the tempest-cloud which hither wends Like a slow-laboured thought, heavy with power; Hark to the patter of the coming shower! Let me be silent while the Almighty sends His thunder-word along; but when it ends I will arise and fashion from the hour
Words of stupendous import, fit to guard High thoughts and purposes, which I may wave, When the temptation cometh close and hard, Like fiery brands betwixt me and the grave Of meaner things–to which I am a slave
If evermore I keep not watch and ward.

I do remember how when very young,
I saw the great sea first, and heard its swell As I drew nearer, caught within the spell Of its vast size and its mysterious tongue. How the floor trembled, and the dark boat swung With a man in it, and a great wave fell
Within a stone’s cast! Words may never tell The passion of the moment, when I flung
All childish records by, and felt arise A thing that died no more! An awful power I claimed with trembling hands and eager eyes, Mine, mine for ever, an immortal dower.– The noise of waters soundeth to this hour, When I look seaward through the quiet skies.

ON THE SOURCE OF THE ARVE.